Life is Just a Bowl of (Sour) Cherries
by creaturesliehere
Summary: Jillian Chadwick's New Year's Resolution of writing in a diary - "It's a journal, Lily, not a diary, I'm not an effin' kid!" - everyday has come back to bite her on the arse. It's boring, Sirius Black keeps stealing it, and in no way, shape or form is it making her anymore ladylike and/or thoughtful. Bugger it all. Eventual SB/OC.
1. Of Resolutions and Twatishness

**Diary of Jillian Chadwick:** **self-proclaimed queen of Gryffindor house and future queen of Hogwarts**

* * *

January 2nd, 1977  
Hogwarts Express  
11:30AM

Lily's laughing at me while I write this, 'cause she thinks I'm being a twat and that having a diary is a 'stupid, stupid pursuit and something Marlene would probably go about doing, you bloody idiot'.

Fucker; you're a _journal_, not an effing _diary_; I'm not a pre-pubescent girl, thank you.

So. Dear Journal, (bloody hell, that doesn't have the same ring to it as 'dear diary'...)

_Dear Journal,_

As of about 24 hours ago, upon waking up with a killer hangover and with no memory of what drunken New Year's Resolution I'd made originally, _you_ are my new New Year's Resolution (I asked Marlene if that made sense, and she flung a copy of _Witch Weekly _at my head and told me to ask Lily, which I really don't want to do, because Lily's _mean _about grammar). I mean, it's gotta be a good thing to keep a diary, right? It'll make me more organised, more reserved, more mature.

I could probably do with more of _all_ those things in my life. I'm not exactly a sparkling model of an organised, reserved, mature lady.

Shut up, I'm still pretty great.

Anyway, so I'll be writing in you every day, detailing the shit I get up to (as of now, nothing, because I am a _mature lady_, thank you very much) this year and my journey from occasionally-well-mannered girl to ingenious, polite young lady.

It'll be a journey, even if it bloody kills me.

... 'Bloody' isn't a very ladylike word, is it? Bugger.

But anyway, this resolution is one I'm _going_ to keep, I tell you, because it's the only one I've made sober (read: possibly sober and suffering from a fucking _awful_ hangover mum wouldn't give me a potion for) for the last couple of years. And that means it's important.

It _is_, no matter what Lily bloody Evans says.

Marlene has since concurred with Lily about the stupidity of my journal, and has decided to remind me of her own resolution.

"I'm gonna stay in a proper relationship for at least three months, ain't I? And I've been in one for a month now, haven't I, so I'm doing well so far."

Marlene is one of those frustratingly gorgeous girls who has a new bloke in her bed almost every month or so. She's a different kind of pretty to Lily, who's reserved and organised and mature and very much like a young Grace Kelly. She says she doesn't wanna be 'that girl' anymore, though, and has since cut all ties with her last fling, Sirius Black.

Which sorta sucks, because her fling with Sirius meant a lot of gossip about what the mysterious Black was like in bed, and even though rumours were all over the bloody castle about what he could do, hearing them from my best friend's mouth suddenly made them much more _real_.

Which is my own warped kind of way of saying that yes, Sirius Black is spectacularly fit, but also spectacularly off limits, given his recent not-quite-a-relationship with aforementioned best friend.

Which is fine, really, because I'm such a hopelessly pathetic girl he wouldn't go there anyway. He only really knows me as 'that girl James sometimes chats to' or 'Marlene's best friend' and occasionally, 'that twat who yells at me a lot', which I s'pose is fair, since I _do_ yell at him quite a lot.

Only since Marlene's dumped him, of course, but he's been grating on my nerves since long before then. Now I just have a real reason to piss him off.

Oh, yes, Jillian Chadwick is a woman of grace, poise and righteous anger.

Look out, Hogwarts, the lion's on the prowl.

* * *

January 2nd, 1977  
Great Hall  
7:10PM

I've chucked the 'dear journal' thing, because it's rubbish and it made it hard to take this bloody thing seriously. Which it is, mind, because it's my New Year's Resolution and I want to effing keep one of those things! And because it is instrumental in my transformation into mature, ladylike young woman.

Anyway, now that that's done, I can get to the real questions.

How many calories are in a bowl of pasta?

No, seriously.

Part of this whole new-better-Jill thing is getting _thin_.

And graceful.

And pretty.

And— well. Pretty much becoming Grace Kelly, who is the most ladylike person to ever live, besides Lily Evans, who could quite possibly out-ladylike even _her_.

Note to self: must stop being jealous of Lily, since know her sister is a conniving little harlot and that James Potter is an unrelenting fuckwad.

Speaking of James Potter, who's currently plotting something a few seats down with those bloody mates of his, he seems unusually prattish this year. Smug. _Sort of_ like that time we got trashed and played spin the bottle and Lily had to kiss him, before she smacked him in the face.

Only not, because unless Lily's been keeping some very juicy secrets, her lips haven't gone near his since.

Just asked Marlene if she thinks Lily and James – Jily? Lames? _Lames_. – kissed. She says that they 'better bloody not have', because everyone knows Marlene's been betting on them getting together in _seventh_ year, not sixth, and she'll be bloody pissed if she loses ten galleons to Sirius, who's convinced they're gonna shag before the end of sixth.

Lames, that is. Not Marlene and Sirius, who I _know_ have already shagged.

... God, if Lily gets together with James, I'll be the last bloody virgin in the group. And that is a shameful, _shameful_ thing to be.

Christ, I'm the Peter Pettigrew of the group. All— all oily and standoffish and annoying.

_Fuck_.

Another note to self: must shag before end of sixth.

And this is why I must become either Grace Kelly or Lily Evans. They're shaggable. I, however, am not.

Bugger it; I'll pass on the pasta. Thinness = shaggableness, right? Right. Salad it is.

Gross salad with the gross lettuce and gross peppers and gross tomatoes.

Bloody diets. I am a universal believer in equality, and I find myself loathing those spectacularly beautiful, annoying girls who have such a good metabolism they don't _have_ to diet (like Mary MacDonald and Greta Catchlove, annoyingly sweet bitches that they are). That should be a trait shared by _all_ women. I should be able to eat a bloody biscuit or muffin without feeling guilty.

Diets suck. Twigs suck. Blokes who like twigs and therefore force girls to diet suck even harder.

* * *

January 2nd, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
After midnight

Celberatory drink with the girls. (I do not know how to spell that word but Lily shook her head and said it was okay so we're okay)

Probably something to do with coming back, I don't know.

I just know we got bling... _blind_ drunk. And— and Lily's passed out. On poor Mary MacDonald's bed, too.

V. good night.

V. good idea.

* * *

January 3rd, 1977  
Great Hall  
Who fucking cares?

V. bad idea.

V. bad.

My head hurts.

My head hurts and we have Potions with the Slytherins first thing, and we're not even brewing something _useful_ like a hangover draught!

Potions is pointless.

Firewhiskey is monstrous.

I will never touch either one again.

Ever.

* * *

January 3rd, 1977  
Dungeons  
About 12PM

People like Lily are the spawn of Satan.

Seriously.

So here's what happened:

I was minding my own business during breakfast, nibbling half-heartedly on a grape while trying to massage the kink in my neck I'd gotten from passing out on the floor last night – bloody Lily and Marlene didn't see the need to put me in bed, apparently, vicious bitches that they are – and listen to Mary MacDonald's recounting of her summer hols (which, yes, were as dull as ever, because Mary MacDonald is a boring old prude) between nauseous gut pangs and throbs from my head. And suddenly, Sirius Black, bloody wanker that he is, starts yelling about hearing us partying last night and being oh-so-hurt he wasn't invited.

Effing git.

So of course, because I'm an un-elegant, un-ladylike _idiot_, I had to come back with, "I can shove your invite up your _bloody_ arse, Black."

Not kidding.

This is my life.

"Ooh, kinky, Chadwick."

"Not a kinky you're gonna get to explore, Black."

"Such a shame; I hear between the sheets of Jillian Chadwick is a good place to be this time of year."

"Shut _up_, you annoying prats!" _That_ one was Marlene, who had her head buried in her hands and was busy massaging her temples.

"He started it."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Did not."

"Did _too_. If you hadn't bloody yelled about invitations when it's too early and I am too hungover, this wouldn't have happened!"

"And if you hadn't gotten drunk on the first night back—"

"Ugh, like you can talk—"

"Bloody Chadwick—"

And it was at about this point that I decided I was done with this conversation, and that bleeding Sirius Black with his bleeding eyes and bleeding _Sirius-ness_ could go fuck himself, since Marlene had already resolved during the summer that she wouldn't be doing it for him anymore. (If you couldn't tell, Marlene's irritation with him has become mine, and I'd say it had become Lily's too, only she already kinda hated him, so that's a moot point).

Marlene's sudden dumpage probably had something to do with her scoring Amos fucking Diggory – seriously, between my two hottie friends and their hottie boyfriends (or soon-to-be boyfriends, because we all know Lily's gonna cave and go out with James one day, just you wait) and probably future hottie kids, I'm _fucked_. I will forever be the Peter Pettigrew of our group, I tell you! – but who cares?

So anyway, I flipped him the bird and he went back to laughing with his little friends, and that was that.

But then Lily came in, right as rain.

That girl, that _bloody_ girl, she is _immune_ to hangovers! She _is_. She **never** gets them. Ever. Which makes her a nasty hag who I should most definitely not be friends with, and who I would likely yell at if she wasn't such a model example of ladylikeness.

(She just read over my shoulder and thwacked me on the arm, so she's a _violent_ nasty hag!)

So, because of her unfairly incredible immunity to hangovers, she's been stuck with making the potion today. Which, let's admit it, she probably would've done anyway, because the entire Wizarding World knows Lily Evans is an effing master at Potions, and that I can't brew a draught to save my life.

God, I'm shit at Potions.

So basically, here is how the day has gone: I have possibly been hit on by Sirius Black, local manskank and general tosser, I have wanted to punch said manskank and general tosser, I have pushed through the hangover from hell (sort of), and I've decided that Lily is a bum.

And it's not even lunch yet.

* * *

January 3rd, 1977  
Great Hall  
12:45

Marlene concurs with the Lily-bum issue.

Lily says we're both cows and has refused to brew us a hangover draught in retribution. Which means that, yes, we are still hungover.

And I've already nearly thrown up _again_ – I gagged remarkably close to Peter Pettigrew, poor bloke, who seems to think I hate him now – because Marlene and Amos are the most sickeningly cute couple to ever _live_.

I asked her if he's a good shag. "Brilliant." She'd said, all breathless and gross, "Probably the best I've ever had."

She seems to conveniently forget that she's shagged Sirius Black, who has the entire female population of Hogwarts singing his praises in the bedroom. But I'm not about to remind her of that, lest she beat me with her History of Magic book.

I have realised that this is most definitely not a productive or ladylike start to the year, and I'm currently worrying about this. Of course, I realised halfway through a chocolate biscuit, which I had to force onto Lily's plate, far, far away from me.

No. Bad Jill. No biscuits.

Sirius Black is conveniently still being a prat. Though not to me, which is perhaps a blessing. He doesn't seem too pleased to have lost his shagging buddy to a Hufflepuff, and he's being quite vocal about it. And magical, given that Amos turned up to the station on the last day of last term with grey hair and a hook nose that looked rather a lot like Slimy Snape's. (It was funny, really, but _Sirius_ did it so I thereby must hate everything to do with it and find the prank dull and immature).

Today, though, Amos seems perfectly fine (unfortunately), and has his tongue shoved down my best friend's throat while I _eat_.

Lily doesn't look too happy, either and— Ouch. That's gotta hurt.

Yeah, she pushed them off the bench.

Seriously, that floor cannot be comfortable.

* * *

January 4th, 1977  
Charms Classroom  
11:40AM

So I might've gotten very bored with Charms. It's not exactly where my talents lie, and, judging by the vinegar-stained shards of James' flask, he was pretty shit at it too.

Now, see, I'd never had the aversion to James Potter that was so deeply ingrained in Lily. The bloke was nice enough, and pretty funny, and we'd gotten shitfaced together enough times that I didn't dislike him nearly as much as I should have. Which meant that conversations between us weren't actually all that rare.

"How was your summer, Potter?"

"Better than yours, if you've suddenly become as boring as you sound."

"Oi, you tosspot, my summer was great!"

"Not as great as school is right now, with me here."

"Please."

"You're starting to sound like Evans, Chadwick."

"Bugger off, you prat."

It'd surprise you to know that this is _friendly_ banter.

"What'd you do, then, that was so great?"

"Drank, o'course. Pippa got into a right do about it; said she doesn't want to see me go the same way as 'that mad McKinnon girl', but you know how that is."

And he would; before Hogwarts, James and I were actually pretty close. But then he met Sirius and his other band of merry prats (okay, that's not fair, Remus is pretty nice) and I met the mad duo I call friends, and we just kinda... drifted. Of course, we remained friends – though I privately thought this was more because of my link to Lily, the love of his life, more than anything – and we chatted and shit, but we were never as close as we were as kids. I think this disappointed mum, who'd been pushing me to date James up until about two years ago, when I'd finally told her that a) I wasn't interested in the slightest and liked to think I had better taste than that, thank you, b) James really isn't the dating sort and seems to have some sort of commitment phobia when it comes to anyone but Lily, to whom he's probably already started planning his wedding to, and c) we barely even talked anymore.

Probably a good thing, because if I'd spent too much time with him, I'd likely have shagged Sirius by now. And even if losing my virginity _is_ on my list of goals for this year, losing it to Sirius Black – who is a _dick_ that treated my best friend as a booty call, but is an undeniably fit dick – is not.

"Your sister's still mental, then."

"Did that need to be asked? My entire _family's_ mental."

"_All_ families are mental, Jill."

"Ooh, look at you, being all sage and Dumbledore-y."

James stroked his nonexistent beard, looking thoughtful. "I could definitely make beards attractive."

"Or pedo-ish. Yeah, no."

"Oh, c'mon, Jillian, admit it; I'd be _fit_ with a beard."

I rolled my eyes and replied sarcastically, "Oh yes, James, of course you would. You'd be so undeniably sexy with a beard that my poor heart cannot take it. Take me now."

He put a hand on his heart, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. "While I am _deeply_ honoured, I am afraid that my affections cannot be so easily won. My bearded love belongs to one woman and one woman only, and she is sitting on the other side of the classroom." I scoffed as he continued, "But perhaps I may redirect your devotion to one of my fellows? I could likely convince Sirius or Remus to grow a beard..." His voice had grown thoughtful, mischievous.

I'd like to say I raised an eyebrow at that point, but eyebrow-raising is a gift not rewarded to us mere mortals, and only reserved for the exceptional people. Not even Marlene can do it. But I did my equivalent, anyway. "Convince or prank?"

"Why, Jill, I never! I am _hurt_ that you would think me capable of pranking my brothers in arms, my comrades—"

"I get it."

I'm still sorely convinced that they're going to show up at dinner or lunch one day with seven-foot long beards tumbling out of their chins, but alright.

* * *

January 5th, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
10PM-ish

Not a lot happened today. Remus showed up to dinner with a beard, as predicted, and seemed to get very frustrated when he couldn't get rid of it. I might've taken pity on him and taken him to the hospital wing once it was only clear that the beard was going to keep growing. By the time we'd gotten there, the hair on his chin had risen to cover his eyes, and he was tripping over the end of his beard even as he laughed.

That's— that's it.

Fuck, this journal thing is _boring_.

And I have most certainly not suddenly sprouted blonde hair or ladylike grace or any ridiculous beauty, which means that journal-writing has most certainly not made me more like Grace Kelly, who probably does not write in a journal and is likely too busy being graceful and fabulous and a princess for such stupid things.

Stupid journal.

Stupid Grace Kelly.

Stupid me.

* * *

**disclaimer:** i do not own harry potter, which belongs to j.k. rowling, but i _do_ own the mess that is jillian chadwick.

winces. not so sure how i feel about this, but i think i like it? maybe? hopefully, you do too, since i have a whole lot of muse for this.


	2. In Which Hair Loss is No Laughing Matter

January 17th, 1977  
Great Hall  
4:20PM

I take it back.

I really, really take it back.

Because apparently writing in a journal has given me enough good luck for Professor Sprout – who, might I say, bloody _hates_ me, since I accidentally made a bubotuber plant explode in fourth year and covered her and everyone else in the pus – to partner me with _Tate Wood_ for the entire term.

I repeat: _Tate Wood._

Tate Wood as in one of the fittest blokes in our year, besides the Marauders (who, let's face it, are bloody gorgeous and entirely more loathsome because of it), and also one of the only ones who has a brain somewhere else but hanging between his legs. I mean, yeah, it's out on the quidditch pitch, or maybe locked away in the box of quidditch supplies in Madam Hooch's office, but it's not where everyone else's is, which makes him incredible. And infinitely nicer than all the other blokes, as can be seen in our eloquent conversation during class.

"I hate Herbology." It wasn't the best conversation starter I'd heard someone come out with, but it was one, and this was Tate effing Wood, in case you'd forgotten, so I hardly _minded_.

"Gonna warn you now; I'm shit at it."

"'Warn' me?"

"_Warn_ you. Back in second year I accidentally ripped a mandrake's roots out, and Sprout's never really forgiven me."

Word vomit, thank you for your appearance.

There were definitely infinitely more ladylike ways to go about this conversation, and by the amused look Lily was shooting me from her place next to Rory Carmichael, she knew it too.

"Oh _yeah_. You're that girl who made the bubotuber explode, ain't you?"

I groaned. I would forever be known as the bubotuber girl, it seemed, which is only marginally better than mandrake girl because it still sounds like some sort of STD.

"What? No. That was my _dear_ friend Lily Evans, Tate, don't tell me you're forgetting."

In truth, I'd only really had about two conversations with him prior. But he'd always seemed like a nice sort, and the fact that he was drop-dead _gorgeous _didn't hurt, either. But it also meant that no, I could _not_ embarrass myself in front of him further. (You can throw your best friend under the bus, right? I mean, 'chicks before dicks' doesn't stand here?)

Lily was glaring at me.

"Lily? Lily's been getting an O in Herbology since first year, Jill."

So he knew my name.

I _might've_ melted into a puddle right then and there. Because _shit_ did my name sound good in that accent.

"... Marlene?"

Marlene, in contrast, had _not_ taken Herbology for NEWT. _I_ was only doing it because I'd lost a bet, and Marlene Ann McKinnon is a vicious bitch. The fact that I'd even gotten _onto_ the course (with my measly Acceptable in the OWLs) was a miracle in and of itself, and involved a lot of buttering up of Professor Sprout and an outrageous story about Herbology being my true calling in life.

"McKinnon?" This cute little smile was on his face now, flashing those _gorgeous_ dimples and his straight white teeth. "C'mon, Jill, we both know you're only tryna cover up your embarrassment."

Being me (that is, a girl with blood vessels like fucking _volcanoes_ when I'm embarrassed), I decided the mature thing was to turn around to try and hide my face. Which meant looking at the class today; Venomous Tentacula.

"You're effing kidding me."

Tate laughed, and it was a nice sound. Not at all like that horrid barking thing Sirius Black does.

Probably why he had half the girls of Hogwarts drooling after him, really. He didn't laugh like an imbecile. God, why hadn't Marlene gone out with _him_, instead of the manskank of Hogwarts? Why, why, _why?_

Actually, it was probably a good thing she hadn't dated Tate Wood, because that means I'm still allowed to fancy the pants off of him without Marlene getting angry and/or jealous. Good on ya, Marls.

It was about halfway through the lesson, though, that my luck ran out when the Venomous Tentacula got particularly handsy. (Though not as handsy as it was rumoured Keith Abrams had gotten with Tabatha Blake at the Hufflepuff welcome-back party a couple of days ago, but I'll tell you about that later). Now, I might hate Herbology, but I pay attention in it. I'm not an idiot; I know the plants are dangerous. So I'd sorta half-listened to Professor Sprout telling us about Venomous Tentacula being dangerous and poisonous and toxic, and when it _grabbed _me— well. I was _scared_, okay? That means I'm allowed to scream and yell at fittie Tate Wood to 'get it off, get it off me _now_!'

If there was ever any chance that he was gonna ask me out, I've dashed it thoroughly.

Bloody Venomous Tentacula.

* * *

January 17th, 1977  
Great Hall  
4:24PM

Have also realised that I've already broken my New Year's Resolution not half a month into 1977.

Bullocks.

You're bloody boring to write in, journal, s'not my fault.

* * *

January 18th, 1977  
Library (Free period!)  
1:15PM

Lily and I are in the library to 'study'.

(Yes, Lily, the quote marks _were_ necessary).

- Lily feels the need to defend her honour as reigning queen of the books by saying that yes, she is studying, but that getting me to do so is impossible and therefore not to be attempted.

Lily will feel my book in her face if she doesn't shut up.

Anyway.

I'm starting to think that I'm never gonna get the hang of Potions. I mean, I passed my OWL – Slughorn accepts Es, after all, and after my abysmal performance in his class the years prior, I'm sure my somewhat capable hands exceeded his expectations thoroughly – but that was only after Lily had ruthlessly grilled both Marlene and I for _months_. I wasn't a natural, like Lily, or decent with practice, like Marlene; I was bloody _horrendous_.

Anyway, at the end of last year, we came up with a trading system; Lily would attempt to teach both of us Potions – 'attempt' being the key word here – and Marlene would help us in Transfiguration – help that we both sorely needed – and I wouldn't tutor them in anything, since it we were in an unspoken agreement that I couldn't be trusted to teach the right things or even know what I was talking about.

Anyway, I'm pants at teaching – and learning, and following instructions, and— most things – and Lily has a short temper and Marlene can't handle stress, so study sessions usually turned into drinking sessions that Lily _firmly_ denies involvement in (she's still reading over my shoulder).

Anyway, so Lily's trying to teach me Potions and getting very frustrated with me. Not my fault she can't bloody teach _(a wobbly line continues on the parchment for a couple of inches)_

I mean. Lily's a great teacher. A great, non abusive teacher, who is merely burdened with idiotic students.

Yep.

* * *

January 18th, 1977  
Gryffindor Common Room  
2:35PM

Had another run-in with Sirius Black today.

That boy is a fucking _problem_.

I do _not_ know what Marlene saw in him.

I mean, besides his unspeakable hotness and those effing _eyes_. He's disgustingly pretty, really. Boys should not have looks as overwhelming as their levels of prattishness. It's _got_ to be illegal.

Anyway, so it started with a prank. Me and Amos were on our way to Defense, 'cause we both take the same class, and Marlene had just left to head for Transfiguration, when my foot gets stuck in a trick step.

I'm not gonna lie and say this is a rare occurrence.

But anyway, so I'm stood there with my foot trapped in the bloody step, when I feel something _moving _under it. And poor Amos has been trying to get me out for a while by now, so he flips his shit when I start screaming about something touching my foot and bugs and beetles and how the house elves are _slacking_ – which they _are_, okay, don't even try and tell me otherwise! – and he's trying even _harder_ to get me out. Of course, because Amos Diggory is a _ninny_ – but a pretty ninny, I'll give him that – all he manages to do is make it _worse_, if that were even possible. And the books in my arms are beginning to make my muscles ache, and I'm really late to Defense, which sucks because it's the hardest of my NEWT classes and I'm so shit at it I need all the help I can get (bloody miracle I got the grades for it, I swear), and he's _fannying_ about pushing my foot in further.

C'mon, I can't be the _only_ one who'd yell at him in that situation.

Which means that yes, I did yell at him, and he gets this proper annoyed look on his face like I was this _great_ inconvenience to him and I was out to ruin his perfectly-planned life – please, I have better things to worry about than making Marlene and him name their firstborn after me (although Jillian Diggory has a fine ring to it, I must say) – and says, "I don't _have_ to help you, y'know."

Except he did, because he's a Hufflepuff and he'd be breaking a law of the universe if he didn't.

I didn't say that, though.

"You do if you want to keep telling your mates you're dating Marlene McKinnon."

He looked like he was sucking on a lemon at that.

So there I am, with a possible rat/bug/beetle/Hagrid's pet fondling my foot, my best friend's freaking out boyfriend, and a bunch of _heavy_ Defense books.

So when my foot comes free – with a squelch, may I add, an effing _squelch_ – and brings with it a loud bang and a flash of light, forgive me if I, in my disorientation, allow my heavy, _heavy_ Defense books to pull me down.

See, this doesn't sound so bad, does it?

I fell over, big deal.

Yeah, big fucking deal when you _knee your best friend's boyfriend in the balls._

Amos, groaning, is clutching his poor balls over his robes – I'd really done a number on them – and swearing, but I don't bother looking at him because a) I don't want to stumble over an apology, b) he annoys me anyway and c) I'm a little preoccupied by the sudden _lack_ of hair on my head.

All of it. Gone.

I spent fucking _years_ growing out that mess so it could be somewhat presentable, and it was lying on the floor around me in thick clumps of dull brown.

I didn't want to believe it, and it took the feel of the smooth skin of my bald head – never ever touch a bald head, okay, it's effing _vile_ – under my hands for me to believe it.

"MY HAIR!" I'm full-out screaming by now, horrified and trying to think of some sort of spell that can bring my hair back. I know _loads_ of cosmetic spells, but they're all written on the sheet of paper on my bedside table. I can only remember how to _dye_ hair, or straighten it, not how to fucking _grow it back_.

"MY BALLS!" Amos is yelling too, believe me. Bear in mind that this is in the _Main Staircase_, where anyone can hear us.

So, yes, _everyone_ came pouring out of their classrooms to see what was going on. And I can't stop screaming because my _hair_ is gone, and Amos can't stop yelling because I kneed him in the balls (seriously, Amos, get some perspective here; my _hair_ is gone, and Marlene never wanted kids so you don't need to fucking worry about banging her against a wall or in a broom cupboard when all my _bloody_ _hair_ is gone)

Most people are laughing, and it's as my eyes fall on the Marauders – Remus apologetically amused, Peter howling with laughter, James leaning heavily on him as laughs shake his shoulders and Black wiping tears from his eyes – that I know. I _know_ it was them.

One minute I'm sitting on the floor, mourning the hair I'd brushed everyday for as long as I could remember, the next I'm in front of Black, yelling and screaming curses – both words and spells – as Marlene and Lily rush into the crowd. Neither tries to hold me back. Marlene, for one, is far too busy triple-checking that her boyfriend is still of use to her, and Lily is focused on trying to stop the laugh I can _see_ in her eyes from escaping.

"Black! You fucking _arsehole_, you'd better _run_!"

He didn't.

Which isn't surprising, really, because Lily's told me more than once that I'm really just like an overgrown kitten when I'm angry. Thanks, Lils, thanks so much.

So, in retaliation, I yelled, "Anteoculatia!"

Yes, I made Sirius Black sprout antlers.

No, it did not make me feel better.

Well. Maybe a little bit.

But my firing at Sirius led to a full-out _duel_, and it's a well-known fact that I'm _shit_ at those, so I ended up covered in painful boils – eugh, my skin's prickling just at the memory – and with a rather odd tail swinging from between my legs.

Not— not _that_ between my legs. Sirius Black did not turn me into a man, I promise.

Although, I'll never forget the sight of him with a bleeding _sardine_ hanging from his left nostril. It'll be a patronus-worthy memory, I'm sure, if I ever manage to produce one.

... God, but I hate him!

Because of _him_, I'm stuck with a month – a whole effing _month_ – of detentions, and not a single hair on my body.

Mhmm, I looked in a mirror. Gone. Poof. No eyebrows, no leg hair, nothing. Nada. Zilch.

I mean— at least Pomfrey managed to get _rid_ of his antlers! She healed me up nice and quick, vanished my tail with pursed lips, somehow managed to stop bogey-covered sardines blowing out of Sirius' nose, but regrowing hair? Oh no, she can't do that.

Lily's lent me this _gorgeous_ scarf she got on her holiday to Milan two summers ago to cover my head with, which is an upside, I s'pose. Marlene seemed torn between hating me for kneeing her boyfriend in the man-area or loving me for hexing the bloke who's been bothering her boyfriend for a month. She chose the latter when I walked into the dorms with Lily's bloody scarf over my head, utterly miserable. She says this is 'punishment enough'. Vindictive bitch.

Of course, Lils and Marlene are being great about it. I've watched Sirius take a tumble down the stairs twice today because of a tripping jinx sent from either of them, and they've been badmouthing him all day while force-feeding me chocolate.

Well. Not _force-feeding_...

Shut up, okay, I'm _bald_, I'm allowed to break my diet.

The moral of this story? Sirius Black is a dick. He's a dick and I hate him and I have no idea _how_ I could've found him attractive _ever_.

Arsehole.

* * *

January 18th, 1977  
Great Hall  
9AM

Wasn't gonna go to class today.

Forgot that I have a teacher's pet for a best friend.

Fucking hate her.

* * *

January 18th, 1977  
Divination Tower  
11AM

It's 11AM and I'm still bald.

This sucks.

Hair should grow back a lot quicker, if you ask me.

On top of the frequent joking from my classmates – wankers, the lot of 'em – Professor Horsfall is under the impression that my recent headgear is a sign, and that my scalping has made me the new Oracle.

Load of horseshit, but she's praising me left and right, so I'm not gonna say _no_.

God, I wish I'd passed Transfiguration. Most places only took people with at least five NEWTs, and I'd only gotten the grades for five classes, so I'd been stuck with a bunch of ones I bloody hated (well, and Herbology, which I loathed but didn't really count as a NEWT, since I was only taking it because the odds were not in my favour about how long it would take Verity Hopkirk – Mary MacDonald's surprisingly slutty best friend – to get over her recent boyfriend).

Anyway, Horsfall's getting on a bit now, so after she'd told us what to do and how to do it, she'd collapsed in her chair and picked up a copy of what _looked_ like last month's _Witch Weekly_, though the splashes of paint on the cover that seemed to cover every surface in her classroom made it difficult to tell.

Up until about ten minutes ago, Marlene and I were pulling faces from across the classroom, but then she fell asleep. This class damages the brain, I tell you.

So it's just me, a deck of tarot cards and a £150 scarf wrapped around my head.

This _sucks_.

* * *

January 18th, 1977  
Detention  
7:30PM

Black's late.

Black is late to a detention that _I_ am forced to take part in because of him.

Gonna kill him.

With James' broom.

Serves James right for laughing at my baldness. Slimy git.

The Marauders are still pricks, I've decided. Never gonna forgive them. Not even Remus, who couldn't hurt a fly if it killed his entire family and poked him in the eye.

Bloody Black.

Where is he?

What the fuck is he—

Oh.

He's here.

Fuck.

And so it begins.

* * *

**disclaimer:** i do not own harry potter, which belongs to j.k. rowling, but i _do_ own the mess that is jillian chadwick.

so, hope you like jill so far. her first month back at school has certainly been an eventful, swearing-filled one. anyway, thank you lovelies for the review and the follows and the favourites, keep em coming?

also, this chapter is just for you, turquoise-eyelashes, since you asked for another one tonight and i'm three ahead :)


	3. The Devil Looks Like Alcohol & Arses

January 19th, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
Ungodly hour (7AM)

Last night was hell. I mean _actual_ hell, and I had the bloody devil by my side the entire time.

So, Black turned up a half hour late. Filch was _pissed_, raging about irresponsible teenagers and how we should be strung up to the Keeper's Hoops by our ears and left to freeze to death. Stingy old bastard.

We were quiet for a while, but Black had this annoying shit-eating grin on his face that told me he wouldn't stay like that for long. Filch gave us the expected task of cleaning the trophy room (took our wands because he's a cruel prick), and then we were pretty much left alone.

Joy.

The peaceful silence lasted less than a minute.

"Nice scarf, Chadwick."

"Nice enough for me to strangle you with it?"

I was at my wittiest with Black, let's be honest.

"So many kinks, Chadwick, so little time."

I rolled my eyes, scrubbing at a large trophy with the ragged cloth Filch had left behind. I wonder what level of teasing I'd get from him if he knew I'm a virgin, but- fuck. Yeah, let's _not_ think about that. Makes my bloody face burn just _considering_ it. (He will never know. Never.)

"Fuck you, Black."

He replied in a singsong voice, "You know you _want_ to."

I could've thrown up then and there. Because, yeah, a week ago, I _did_ want to. He was a prick and he'd treated my best friend like a plaything (and even if she said she didn't mind, everyone knew that was a lie) and he treated everyone else like they were inferior, but there was something ridiculously fit about him. It was the Black charm, apparently, though I hadn't found myself ever wanting to shag psycho Bellatrix or drag prickish Regulus into a broom cupboard for a quickie.

"I know I want to punch you in the face."

"C'mon, Chadwick, we saw how that ended last time. Not pretty, all that baldness." His tone was mocking, cruel, and I felt a pang of hurt, but more than that, I felt _angry_. How _dare_ he tease me about something that was _his_ fault? How _dare_ he treat this like it was a joke?

My jaw clenched. "Shut up, Black, and do your work."

"_You've_ been spending too much time with Evans."

"_You've_ been spending too much time with yourself."

"Oh yeah? And what's _that_ s'posed to mean?"

I snorted. "Well, since Marlene started hooking up with Amos, you've had to satisfy your _own_ needs, haven't you?"

"Fuck you, Chadwick." He sounded bored, but just the knowledge that I'd made him give up his constantly-amused act – _me!_ – was enough to satisfy me. The prick should know what it was like, getting picked on for shit out of your control.

We were quiet for a while longer, but I was alert for any hurtful comment or hex he could aim my way. Sirius Black is a spineless bastard, after all, and I wouldn't put either past him.

About a quarter of the way through our detention, he flopped on the floor, dropped his rag and bucket beside him and closed his eyes. He _almost_ looked like he was sleeping, relaxed as he was, and I rolled my eyes as I went back to scrubbing a plaque bearing the name 'Morris, Darcy'.

After a while of this, I glanced behind me to see that he really did seem to have fallen asleep. _Arrogant arse_, I thought, _thinking he can leave me to do all the work._

So... I might've... _maybe_... thrown my bucket at him. Maybe.

(Getting that out of the way so that it's on record that no, I cannot be blamed for the rather nasty bruise forming on his forehead, and it is not my fault that he's currently walking around smelling of cleaning products).

Okay, so I totally threw my bucket at him. And I'm not talking the _contents_ of my bucket, oh, no, no, no. I mean I threw the entire bucket – metal and all – at him. It really was beautiful, watching it crash down on his forehead and shower him in soap water.

Reading that back, I sound vaguely like a psychopath. I'm not. Honest. _Sirius_ is the psychopath; I mean, his entire bloody _family_ is filled with nutters.

Anyway, so Sirius is lying there on the floor of the Trophy Room with an overturned bucket rolling away from his head, a rather sore looking red mark on his too-big forehead and his robes completely soaked through, while a fat, bald girl laughs at him from beside a plaque covered with names as wide as she is tall.

It's a beautiful, beautiful memory of mine, and one I'll cherish long after I've forgotten my own name.

Of course, the chase he'd started as soon as he came to his senses is not.

99% sure there's a bruise on my arse that I can't _quite_ see. Will update later.

* * *

January 19th, 1977  
Great Hall  
8AM

Got a letter from Mum.

This is marginally less horrid than detention with Black, and only then because I know _she_ won't hex me black and blue.

I just—

I'm gonna stick it in here, I s'pose, because I can't be asked to rewrite it for your benefit. Wait, just gotta try and find Marlene's spellotape.

Fuck. Can't— fucking—

Note to self: _tell Marlene to organise her effing trunk._

Asked Verity Hopkirk for a sticking charm, but she didn't know it, so she's lending me some 'nail glue' (dad never told us muggles make glue out of nails... how vile!) which she says is very strong. Lovely girl, Verity. Bit whorish, but lovely.

Anyway, here it is:

_Dearest Jillian_,

_Hello, darling! Mum here, just writing to let you know that you left behind those lovely new shoes I bought you for school, and I'll be sending them over soon, when Geoffrey's not so exhausted from his flight. (He's been come and go, poor owl, and your dad's had a lot of mail and business to attend to recently)._

_Speaking of school, dear, I got a letter from Professor McGonagall about your fighting with some Sirius Black boy, and how you've gotten detention. Honestly, Jillian, why you choose to make such a trouble of yourself I'll never know. Picking fights with people? Getting detention? And – from what Pippa's been telling me – getting drunk with that McKinnon girl! Honestly, when I heard you were so sick over the holidays, I assumed you were catching your dad's cold, but _hungover_?_

_We'll talk when you get home, Jillian._

_On a lighter note, I was wondering if you'd managed to think on that little chat we had over the holidays. Because really, Jillian, it's most ridiculous to have me believe you're not attracted to a single one of those Hogwarts boys. I've _seen_ what they're like now, and by Merlin, if I was twenty years younger—_

_Well. Anyway. It's just that I know Pippa's been extraordinarily happy since she found Marcus, and I want you to be happy, too. And I'm not getting any younger, sweetheart, so grandchildren within the next ten years or so would be _wonderful_..._

_Have fun in all your classes, and do _try_ to keep your grades up this year.  
Mum  
xoxo_

God, there are so many things I have to say about all this.

For one, those shoes I left behind I left behind on _purpose_, thank you very much, because mum might be a lovely woman, but she does _not_ have lovely taste.

Just. Eugh.

No.

My second complaint is her scolding me for my drinking. I mean, I get it, mums are s'posed to do that, but she was a teenager once too! How does she go from being someone fun to being a _parent_? D'you think a mum pushes a baby out from between her legs and suddenly just loses her funny bone and gives it to her kid, or something?

Anyway, thirdly, mum's been badgering me about getting a boyfriend for _yonks_. As if it were that easy. (She seems to think it is, and that I'm beautiful, but she's my _mum_, innit? She's _obliged_ to think that). We all know she just wants grandchildren, because the woman's the most maternal one I know of, but it doesn't change the fact that she's overbearing and annoying in her pursuit of our – that's Pippa and I's – futures.

Four, I do _not_ need to hear about my mum lusting after some sort of Sirius Black-type Hogwarts boy, thank you very much.

And finally, she's taken to comparing me to Pippa a _lot_. 'Pippa never wore her hair like that', 'sweetheart you could have such a nice figure, like Pippa's', 'really, Jillian, must you dress like a harlot? Pippa wouldn't'. It's annoying.

No, it's not. Annoying doesn't even _begin_ to cover it.

Christ.

* * *

January 20th, 1977  
Muggle Studies Classroom  
10AM

_REMEMBER TO DO THE ESSAY ON ELECTRICITY AND HOW IT WORKS_

_REMEMBER TO DO THE ESSAY ON ELECTRICITY AND HOW IT WORKS_

_REMEMBER TO DO THE ESSAY ON ELECTRICITY AND HOW IT WORKS_

_REMEMBER TO DO THE ESSAY ON ELECTRICITY AND HOW IT WORKS_

* * *

January 21st, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
7PM

Bumped into Tate Wood today.

He said he liked my scarf. And not in— not in the kinda way Black had, all sneering and amused and mean. He seemed to mean it, even tugged on the ends of it teasingly with this friendly little laugh, but then he said he had to run; something about quidditch.

Always quidditch with that boy.

But my bumping into him (which was surprisingly accidental on my part) has told me two things: one, that Tate Wood is still as deliciously fit as he was this time last year, and two, that my screaming fit, battle with the Venomous Tentacula and sudden baldness have not scared him off.

_Success!_

Although I highly doubt I could've scared him off _romantically_, since there's no flipping way a _gorgeous_ bloke like Tate Wood would be romantically interested in a bald twit like me. So. Partial success? I s'pose?

Not quite as bald anymore, though. Verity Hopkirk – again, lifesaver, bloody love that girl – gave me this salve thing her mum (who's a muggle) had after something Verity called chemo. Said that her dad (a wizard) had made it for her, and it helped her mum's hair grow back quicker. So I am now the not-very-proud-but-vaguely-relieved owner of a head of very _very_ short hair, and – according to Marlene – a misshapen skull.

_Double success!_

Not on the misshapen skull thing, I mean. But I have _hair_ – kinda – and that means my life is finally getting back on track! I am _one_ step closer to becoming Grace Kelly, I can feel it.

* * *

January 21st, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
8PM

Have looked into the matter of the bruised arse. (By that, I mean I locked the girls out of the bathroom and spent a good half hour studying my bum in the mirror, which has made me much more vicious about getting back on this diet thing). Definitely bruised. Black really did a number on me, throwing me on the floor like that.

Prat.

Would go down to Pomfrey and ask for some kind of salve, but I've spent enough time in the Hospital Wing complaining about my lack of hair to last me twelve lifetimes.

Lily says it's my own fault for throwing that bucket at Black, but I don't think she means it. She'd laughed harder than anyone when I told her about it.

Whatever. I've got a whole weekend to heal up and replay the look on Black's face when that bucket hit him. Sounds good.

Well. Nearly a whole weekend. I mean, going down to Hogsmeade means I've gotta do things beside bask in my victory, I s'pose, but I'm not complaining. The Sheffields (this family that own The Three Broomsticks) make the _best_ butterbeer, and I think after the month I've had, I deserve it. That's not breaking my diet, is it? I mean, it's a _drink_; a heavenly, gorgeous drink, but a drink all the same.

Note to self: must befriend Rosmerta Sheffield in order to procure free butterbeers post-graduation.

Speaking of graduation, Lily pointed out yesterday – to many complaints and pillow throwing on me and Marlene's parts – that we have a year and a half (ish) until we leave. Half a year till sixth year's over, and a year after that till I'm a fully-fledged, graduated adult.

That's terrifying.

I'm not an _adult_. Marlene's not an adult. The closest we're gonna get to adulthood is being mates with Lily Evans, the most mature sixth year I know, but also a girl who's really not all that mature anyway. (See: binge drinking, smoking like a chimney, snorting like a pig every time someone references James Potter's dickish-ness and/or lack of balls).

Bullocks.

This recent development of childishness and impending doom (aka graduation) makes my goal of becoming an elegant young lady even _more_ important.

Will keep you updated.

* * *

January 22nd, 1977  
The Three Broomsticks  
12PM

Drinking butterbeer is _not_ breaking my diet, I've decided. Well, I say 'I'; Marlene's sick of her diet, so she made the decision of butterbeer being healthy and the perfect aid to weight loss so that she could consume something _other_ than salads and watercress and other disgustingly green things.

Marlene really is too good at sticking to diets. I mean, she'll occasionally snap (like today) and have something fattening, (_not_ fattening, butterbeer, because I _need_ it and I refuse to break that _bloody_ diet) but most of the time, she has self-restraint. Thin bitch.

She smacked my arm when I came back from the toilet, said she'd read you while I was gone.

Bad journal. You shouldn't let people read you.

(note to self: _**look into getting a bloody magical/locking/both journal**_)

Anyway, with three butterbeers in my system, a lot of Lily's whining about diets (mad cow; no idea why _she's_ dieting, twig that she is) and a pair of jeans that I'm _determined_ to slim down for, today's been pretty great.

* * *

January 22nd, 1977  
Girls' Dorm  
8PM

_God_, life sucks.

Who the bloody _fuck_ did I piss off in a past life to end up with _this_ shitty existence?

Did I— did I kill babies, was I Morgan le Fey, or something? How the _hell_ is it fair that _I_ get a life like this, when Grace Kelly gets a life of luxury and beauty and fabulousness?!

Simple: it's _not_.

Fuck.

So basically, I was on my way back to Hogwarts with the girls – minding my own business, too! – when a particularly strong gust of wind (remember that this is _Scotland_, which is always windy, and it's still winter on top of that) barrelled at all of us and _took my scarf off._

Yep. Pulled that _gorgeous_ thing right off my head, leaving my practically hairless, misshapen skull open to the world. I got _goosebumps_ on my head, and I didn't even know that was effing **possible**!

Eugh. So we're all running around like ninnies, trying to get that bloody scarf back (might I remind you that, on top of it preserving some of my self-esteem, it also cost Lily £150?!) while the wind throws it around, and I'm _just_ leaping for it, when who should find me? Why, Sirius Black and his fuckwit friends, of course.

Because my life was just _too_ easy before then.

So Black picks up the scarf of the ground and gets this look on his face, like he's trying to decide whether or not to laugh (which James is already doing, so I'm not talking to him ever again) or feel sorry for me (and not in a nice way, the arrogant prick), before choosing to laugh. I snatch the scarf outta his hands in turn, because my head really was getting quite cold at that point and I didn't want to freeze to death while I listened to Black's teasing. And I'm tying it around my head (after deciding _against_ strangling him) when I notice the sympathetic look Remus is shooting me.

See, unlike his other mates, I don't actually have any sort of relationship with Remus. I mean, there's obviously the dislike I hold for him because he's mates with Gryffindor's prickish poster boy, but Lily says he used to be nice to her when they were partners in Charms last year. (I vehemently refuse to believe this, however, because anyone who can put up with James' idiocy, Black's prattiness AND Peter's... Peterness... well. They can't be all that nice, can they? Or all there).

Anyway, so he has this look of pity on his face even as his mates are laughing around him – Peter seems to not have forgotten my earlier gagging faux pas, so I s'pose he hates me too now – but he doesn't say anything. Spineless pricks, the lot of em.

"Fuck off, Black." It's Marlene that says it, surprisingly, and it was then I realised that she and Lily had turned up not long after I'd recovered my scarf from the manskank.

He didn't seem hurt by it, but I dunno if that means he wasn't. I mean, what he and Marlene had didn't really constitute a relationship (she'd told me enough about it that I knew _that_, at least) but they were mates, at least, I knew that. But then she, like me, had made a resolution to better herself, and that constituted— well. Cutting out all the toxic relationships she had (in fairness, she'd done that two months before New Year's, so I wasn't sure if it counted as a resolution, but whatever).

Lily says it's a good thing she broke up with Black when she did, though, 'cause he was always a bit of a prick to her anyway, and Lily's pretty smart about relationships. I mean, she hasn't had many (mainly because all of the blokes _mysteriously_ ended up in the hospital wing before their first date) but she's a bloody smart girl.

Still hoping that smartness'll rub off on me. It hasn't yet.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. So Marlene's pissed at Sirius for being a prick about my baldness (have I mentioned how much I love Marlene? Because I do; I _adore_ that crazy bitch and I adore her even more for taking my side against her ex-something-or-other. Fab girl, Marlene, even if she _is_ a vindictive bitch at times) and Sirius looks pissed about her taking my side – like I _hadn't_ been her best mate since first year – and says back, "Bugger off, McKinnon, this is between Chadwick and I."

Noticing that there're loads of surnames in this.

Anyway, after that, things became much more tense, and this little argument was clearly about more than him laughing at me. "Yeah, well _Jill_ is my best mate, you dumb prick, so this is between us too." Is what she said next.

"I've had enough of shit between us, ain't _you_? Just wasn't fun anymore."

I can see Marlene getting angry by this point, and I'd hold her back so she doesn't pounce on him, only I'd love to see Black get a good walloping. Lily was clearly in agreement with me, since she didn't move to restrain our short-tempered best friend.

But she didn't hit him. Instead, she just replied, "Yeah, you just weren't _satisfying_. Don't worry, though, Amos is _much_ more fun."

And she walked away, Lily and I trading looks as we followed behind her. He yelled something at her back about stingy Hufflepuff poofs, and this time I _did_ restrain her. Didn't need to ruin her perfect entrance, did we?

* * *

January 23rd, 1977  
Girls' Dorm  
Don't know, don't fucking care.

Ow.

Every effing _thing_ hurts. _Everything_.

I am never going to move again. I am never going to eat again. I am never going to _think_ about touching a drop of firewhiskey again.

I should probably explain.

When we got back yesterday, Marlene started _raging_ about Black, throwing shit around the dormitory and sending Verity and Mary running downstairs to get away from her wrath. "Just _who_ does he think he is? Pretending that _he_ broke up with _me_, tryna make himself seem like the better person in our fling, or somethin'!"

"He thinks he's Sirius Black, Marls, and y'know he thinks that means he has the right." Is what I said (or something along those lines), 'cause it's true. Not that he has the right, I mean, 'cause he don't, but he seems to believe that just because his name's Sirius Black and he's the most popular bloke in school (which isn't even that true, really, he's just being a prick and refusing to acknowledge that Tate has just as many admirers as he does) he can do what he wants.

I said as such to Marlene, and she growled and threw Mary's hairbrush at the wall.

"You're better off without him, honestly." Lily piped up, "He's a gutless pig and a nasty prick and you shouldn't listen to a word he says."

She was right, of course. She's always right. Marlene seemed to know this too, 'cause she threw herself down on my bed with a growl and buried her hands in her hair. After a moment, she replied, voice muffled by her palms, "I _know_ he is. I _know_ I'm better off without him. I never even really _had_ him. But just— it hurts, y'know? 'E was my mate, even before we were shagging."

And—

Shit, sorry. Just had to get up to violently vomit in the bathrooms. Marlene slept through, but Lily's gone downstairs to try and procure us a hangover cure. (Dunno why she's going downstairs, really, 'cause the best place to get that sort of thing is from Dung Fletcher in Slytherin, and I know for a fact she's not going to the Slytherin common room this early).

Have just realised that Lily has a hangover. It'd be a lie to say I'm not bloody happy. (Don't tell her).

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so Marlene was proper upset about how her friendship with Sirius had been ruined 'cause she shagged him and then broke it off, and she was crying, and if there's one thing we've learned is a cure-all for tears?

Firewhiskey.

Always the firewhiskey.

Surprisingly, it was Lily who suggested it, and we all had a little leftover from last time. Pooling it all together, we had enough to get us blissfully drunk.

I don't really remember much beyond the fifth shot. Firewhiskey's some strong shit. But I allegedly used one of the poles of my four-poster for pole dancing, (though Mary isn't exactly the most reliable source, shit-stirrer that she is), snogged Marlene (which is more believable, surprisingly) and promptly passed out in Lily's bed (which is where I am now).

There. You're all caught up. I've done my entry for the day. Now excuse me while I go back to sleep for the rest of my effing life.

* * *

**disclaimer:** i do not own harry potter, which belongs to j.k. rowling, but i _do_ own the mess that is jillian chadwick.

so, jill's still not very happy with sirius. and with a temper like jill's she likely won't be for a while. ah, well, mad jill is fun. anyway, comments, feedback?


	4. Of Prats and Drama (lots of that)

January 28th, 1977  
Library (another 'study' break)  
About 2:30PM

Have decided that if I can't write in this thing every day, I have to do it at least once a week.

I _will_ succeed. I _will_ do it.

Anyway, update on the baldness; not quite so bald anymore. I mean, my hair's a little longer than a buzz cut, and that's good. I've stopped wearing the scarf, since I don't want to risk losing it again and sparking yet another fight between Black and Marlene. Don't think I could take that hangover again.

Mary says I look like a dyke with my hair like this. Decided I don't like her anymore, rude bitch. Hit her with Lily's copy of 'Hogwarts: A History' before I decided to stop talking to her, though, which I count as a success despite the _vicious_ elbowing I got from my ginger friend for my efforts. Mary's not talking to me, either, now, which I s'pose is good. Shows unity, and that; mutual feelings.

What else has happened? (Shut it, I kept forgetting to write in you).

James finally seemed to realise I wasn't talking to him two days ago. We were sat in Charms together, him trying to start a conversation about how batty Sybil Trelawney is – which she really is, but I couldn't agree with him because I'm still angry at him – and me ignoring him while trying (and failing) to make the goblet set on my desk fly nonverbally.

'Course, I'm pants at Charms on a normal day, but with my increasing frustration – both at my own ridiculously unfair ineptitude and the prat sat on my right – I was even _worse_. I didn't even know that was _possible_! Anyway, James clearly noticed my renewed focus on Charms rather than what a nutter our classmate was – surprising, since the bloke never really notices anything besides how Lily's styled her hair that morning and what way he should run his hand through his own hair to make himself look most prattish – and after a while of staring at me (and me, in turn, ignoring him) he asked,

"Somethin' wrong, Jill?"

Yes, you bloody prat. You and your mates _scalped_ me (thereby ruining my chances of achieving the unspoken yet horrifically true goal number three of becoming a better Jill; getting a boyfriend), laughed at me for kneeing my best mate's boyfriend in the balls, laughed at me for losing all my hair, laughed at me for losing my _scarf_, with which I covered the aforementioned gruesome lack of hair, and indirectly caused me the worst hangover I've ever experienced (nevermind that I say that about all my hangovers, 'cause that's not the effing point).

Only I didn't say that.

I didn't say anything at all, actually.

This only seemed to make him _more_ annoying. Really, how does Lily put up with him pining after her? I mean, he doesn't ask her out constantly, but _really_, she does have to listen to his shit _every day_. Poor girl. Will never be jealous of her again.

"C'mon, Jill, talk to me."

"The silent treatment, seriously?"

"Real mature." (I had to physically restrain myself from saying 'as if you can talk' at that one).

"Jill. Jill. Jill. Jill."

After about two minutes of the last one, I gave up and looked at him. I'd love to say he quailed under my glare – which was most _certainly_ quail-worthy, thank you very much – but instead this shit-eating grin spread across his face, kind of like when he _knows_ a prank's gone off without a hitch, but different. This grin did not help matters any.

"_What_, you bloody prick?"

His grin didn't even die _then_. God, James Potter's an arsehole. I dimly wished I could be even vaguely talented at nonverbal magic so that I could levitate him into the air above the class and turn him arse over head until he felt sick. Unfortunately, my magic didn't mysteriously obey my will right then and there, and James Potter remained infuriatingly where he was, still beaming at me like the twat he is.

"She speaks!"

I glared at him harder, and after a beat of silence, he rolled his eyes. "Pull that stick out of your arse, Jill."

"What, so I can _beat_ you with it?"

He raised his hands to me in an _alright, alright_ kind of way, and I rolled my eyes, turning my attention back to the goblet on my desk. "Okay, psycho, calm down. What'd I ever do to you?"

I gave him a _look_. "_Besides_ scalping me, laughing at me and being a general prat to me and my mates?"

"Oi! I'm not a prat to Lily!"

"You're a bigger prat to Lily than you are to _me_, and that's saying something."

He sniffed, like the pompous twit he is. "You sit on a throne of lies."

"At least I have a throne." I'd replied distractedly. I'd like to point out that at this point I was trying to make my goblet fly into James' ruddy annoying face, and failing rather spectacularly. I eyed Lily's steadily rising goblet enviously. Lily's good at bloody everything. It's ridiculous; she gets top marks in both Charms AND Potions, two classes that I fail spectacularly at, and she's the crown jewel of Gryffindor house.

Must remind myself not to be jealous, as James Potter is still an insufferable git and I am not nearly as ladylike as Lily and so could not _graciously_ (read: yell and fume in the privacy of the dorms) put up with him as she does.

Anyway, back to the story.

James elbowed my side, then inquired in a slightly more serious (that is, only a titch less teasing than he usually is) voice, "Seriously, what's got you wound up so tight?"

I huff. "I've already answered that question."

"What, you're angry 'cause I laughed at you?"

"And removed all my hair – yes, all of it, you great tosser, I _checked_ – and bug all my friends repeatedly."

"C'mon, Jill, that was just a laugh. And anyway, Marlene's my best mates' ex-girlfriend; I can't be _nice_ to her." He didn't say anything about Lily, I'm realising now, which is weird, because James usually never passes up a chance to wax poetic about his one true love.

"Just a _laugh_? I'm _hairless_. I'm ugly and hairless and Mary says I look like a flipping _dyke_, and it's all _your _fault."

"Well, technically—"

"Shut up, I wasn't done. Marlene might be your best mate's ex, I get that, okay, because your _twat_ of a best mate's _my_ best mate's ex-boyfriend, and I'm obliged to be a bitch to him because he treated her like shit and because he pisses me off anyway, but Marlene's _nice_, and you need to stop being such a prick to both her _and_ Lily. And me."

He opened his mouth to reply, looking rather pissed off, but Flitwick – love that tiny little man – dismissed us and I packed my bag hurriedly (left my favourite quill there, too!) and rushed out of the classroom. I was done with _that_ particular conversation.

And now, I'm just— here. I really should be trying to do my homework, but this journal is (unsurprisingly) much more interesting than that six foot long essay on the properties of Dittany.

Come to think of it, what _are_ the properties of Dittany? Is it that healing plant, or is that Motherwort? Or is it both? Actually, I think Sprout might've said something about Jewelweed being good for healing...

Fuck, I'm never gonna pass Herbology.

Or Charms, for that matter, if my lack of progress in nonverbal work proves anything.

I'd hunt down Marlene and Lily, only I know for a fact that they're in Transfiguration (which, really, is one of the only classes Marlene's good at and therefore one she takes very seriously) and I really can't be asked to make the trek to McGonagall's classroom and wait outside for them.

Ugh, why didn't I take Transfiguration?

Oh yeah, because I _suck_ at it.

* * *

January 28th, 1977  
Great Hall  
5:30PM

Salad again tonight.

Lily says I'm being ridiculous. She got into this proper tizzy about it; started saying that "Honestly, Jill, you're not that fat, you don't need to live off that shitty salad – without any _dressing_, too! – when I know for a _fact_ you want to get your mits on that cauldron cake you've been eying for ages. Just eat like a normal person. That goes for you too, Marls." And she levelled a glare at Marlene beside me, who was on her fifth apple of the day.

Bloody Lily Evans, making so much sense and pulling me off the path to Better Jill-dom (I feel the capitals are necessary).

No. Must not eat the cauldron cake. Must not.

Must be thin.

Must be ladylike.

Must become somewhat Grace Kelly-esque.

Okay, must stop thinking about the cauldron cake.

Still not talking to James, but he doesn't really seem to care all that much. Prat.

Marlene says we're better off without _any_ Marauders in our lives, and she's probably right, but I'm gonna bloody miss getting shitfaced in front of the fire in the common room with James flicking marshmallows and gummy dragons at me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

Actual five year old, that James Potter.

Anyway, enough of that Marauder-talk.

Lily thinks Tate likes me. Y'know, _like-_likes me. Marlene isn't so sure, and I'm not sure whether I should commend her for her honesty or smack her for assuming he's not interested.

Whatever.

Anyway, I've been seeing him around a lot. We don't talk that often, 'cause I mean... it's not like we hang out in the same places (he the quidditch pitch and me generally in the great hall) or with the same people, y'know?

I dunno. I just... I'm curious. I wanna know if Lily's right, since she usually is, and it'd be nice if a bloke actually looked at me like I was of the female gender for once, yeah?

Now, question: how many more salads d'you think I have to eat before I reach the stick-thin proportions that Tate usually looks for in a girl?

A lot, huh. _Fuck_.

Effing blokes.

Effing need to have a bloke.

Effing salads.

* * *

January 30th, 1977  
Gryffindor Common Room  
11:20AM

Debating the pros and cons of going to this Apparating class.

PROS:

- Lily's going, 'cause she thinks it's necessary

- Marlene's going, 'cause she thinks it'll be a laugh

- Will learn how to Apparate alone; no uncomfortable side-alongs with Mum and/or Pippa

- Will be able to _say_ I can Apparate alone; not completely hopeless

- Rite of Passage

- Nothing to do while Lils and Marlene are doing it

CONS:

- Marauders are likely going; will be uncomfortable, irritating and chaotic

- Splinching; need I say more?

- Apparition is uncomfortable as shit

- Boring

- Less free time

I can't think of anymore, but I'm 99% sure they're there. Lily says that 'cause there's more pros than cons I should definitely do it and that it'll be useful, and Marlene wants me to do it because she doesn't wanna be the only one fooling around in there, but the cons are certainly important.

Think the best way to make this decision is with a pack of Marlboros and a mug of tea. Will check in when these give me the required decision-making skills.

January 30th, 1977  
Beside the Black Lake  
12-ish (PM)

Been thinking about that Apparition thing.

Marlene joined me after a while, said she got bored going over Charms in the library (we share our incompetence in that ruddy class, thankfully, since I don't think I could handle _two _ridiculously skilled mates). Nicked off with one of my fags, too, because the girl's always too lazy to buy her own. I've lost count of how many she owes me by now.

Anyway, we got into this really deep conversation. She was quiet for a while beforehand, just sorta stared at the lake like it could solve all her problems and took long drags from the fag in her hand. She looked... tired. Sad, too, which is weird, 'cause Marlene McKinnon's the happiest girl in the world. And she said after a while, halfway through her fag, "D'you think this whole thing between me and Sirius is stupid?"

Yes, actually, I do. Not that they've broken up, I mean, more that they keep ruddy _fighting_ about it. They were never even _together_, really, but they're acting like they got a divorce and are in the middle of trying to decide which one of 'em should get the kid.

Don't really know who would be the kid in this situation, but still.

Anyway, I couldn't exactly say that yes, she was being stupid, because then she'd get all frowny and angry and tell me I wasn't supporting her decisions. Nutter, Marlene. So I said, "Nah. I think Black's stupid, but not this thing you've got."

And Black _is_ stupid, so it's not a _total_ lie.

She got this little smile on her face, and looked at me in this sort of admiring way she's never done before. The fag was halfway to her lips when she said, "You're lucky, y'know."

And it was there that I decided she'd gone completely flipping insane. Lost her marbles, a few screws loose, one twig short of a broom. Because I ain't lucky. I'm better off than some people, I know that, and 'cause I'm a halfblood I don't get the sort of discrimination Lily – who's muggleborn, if I've never mentioned that before – does. But I ain't— I ain't lucky. I've got an arse the size of Africa and thighs like two great big sausages, and my front tooth is chipped from a flying accident in first year (never getting on a broom again, _never_), and I'm annoying and unladylike and inelegant, and the complete opposite of Marlene, who's got legs as long as the river Nile, or Lily, who's the most perfect human being to walk the Earth.

She probably saw something like that in my face, or something, 'cause she added, "You are. No boy drama, no bloody annoying prats," I beg to differ, by the way, because Sirius Black most _certainly_ qualifies as a bloody annoying prat, "none of that shit." She made a vague hand gesture, took another long drag from her cigarette, and then said, "Anyway, doesn't matter. Have you decided whether or not to take the Apparating thing?"

And maybe I should've said something, something 'bout how she's got people like me and Lily for her, but I didn't. Instead, I started talking about how I wasn't very sure and that splinching really did sound _awful_, and that I'd heard last year's professor wasn't even _fit_, so what was the point?

Am I a shitty friend?

Probably.

But hey, I gave her my last sugar quill – fuck diets, okay – and another fag, and by the time we were headed back to the castle, she was laughing her head off, so I s'pose I could be a shittier friend.

* * *

February 4th, 1977  
Girls' Dorms  
Late

I bloody love Truth or Dare.

I really, _really_ do.

Back in fourth year, when the three of us got really bored, we'd made up a few rules of our own; the most important being if you chose Truth, you'd have to take a shot. Which is why we always made sure we had a bottle of cheap vodka or firewhiskey available.

(Doesn't matter if I swore I'd never touch firewhiskey again, does it, 'cause we have vodka this time)

Anyway, so Lily's currently hunting for the vodka she'd hidden away in her trunk after last Hogsmeade trip, Mary's fidgeting nervously across from me 'cause she always gets nervous about Truth or Dare, Marlene's trying to find a chaser for the vodka because it tastes like hippogriff shit, and Verity's buzzing excitedly.

And I'm writing in you.

I give up chances for socialising for this, y'know.

Since our chat, Marlene hasn't said anything else about Sirius or anything. Seems happy. Dunno if she really is.

But she's always happy about drinking, so...

Lily just found the vodka.

Mary looks, if possible, more nervous.

Anyway, Truth or Dare is a beautiful game. Best thing a muggle's ever invented. And I mean, yeah, you need to explain the rules to your pureblooded friends – Marlene, who's a dunce – but it can be a right laugh. If you stop freaking your shit like _somebody_, anyway.

Lily's trying to teach us the words to _Blackbird_ by the Beatles while Marlene rummages through her still unorganised trunk for the shot glasses. (After an unfortunate incident last summer wherein which Lily's parents found the shot glasses and vodka in her trunk and grounded her, we'd decided to start bringing one thing each, so we could always pass it off as a gift for someone, rather than something we were planning on using to get blind drunk). Let it be known that there is not a single person in the Gryffindor sixth years' girls' dorms that can carry a tune.

She's about halfway through, now, and Verity's given up because she can't get the words right and 'magical music is better anyway', and Mary's humming along, still fidgeting, and Marlene's not even paying attention because her trunk's a ruddy mess and she probably knows she should've listened to me about organising it when I told her, but _no_.

We're—

Sorry. Found the shot glasses, might've done a celebratory (I can spell it this time, see!) shot each in preparation.

Tonight's gonna be blooming _beautiful_.

(Lily's still singing, so there's a limit to that beauty)

* * *

**disclaimer:** i do not own harry potter, which belongs to j.k. rowling, but i _do_ own the mess that is jillian chadwick.

thank you for the reviews, everyone, because it really does motivate me! i hope jill isn't too much of a bitch/stingy cow/alcoholic for all of you? anyway, more reviews are welcome!


End file.
